


Snippets

by dontcareajot



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:12:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7093840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcareajot/pseuds/dontcareajot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles originally posted on tumblr and inspired by prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. patching up a wound

Wade is used to Peter coming and going at odd hours. Or, he’s getting used to it. One of the perks of dating a superhero is the perpetual and inescapable worry that they either won’t come back once they leave or they’ll come back in pieces. That’s something else Wade is getting used to, that worry. Not that he’s never cared about anyone before, but he’s never cared about anyone like this, and he’s never cared about anyone who was so insistent on disregarding their own personal safety for the benefit of others.

All this to say that Wade has trouble sleeping when Peter isn’t next to him. It’s sappy and gross and he would never, ever admit it out loud, not even to Peter. But Peter’s been gone for hours and his side of the bed is cold and Wade is in the middle of tossing and turning and alternating between counting seconds and counting bumps on the ceiling when the front door creaks open. Wade likes to think that maybe Peter’s spider-sense is wearing off on him, only for Wade it’s Peter-sense, because Wade is worried before he even knows there’s cause to be worried.

(Peter would tell him spider-sense doesn’t work like that, that it isn’t contagious, but Wade has seen enough weird shit in his life to entertain the idea that it might be.)

By the time Wade rounds the corner into the living room, Peter is already shedding his uniform. First the mask, revealing tousled hair sticking to sweaty, flushed cheeks and a squinty-eyed look of pain that Wade has seen before. Next his top- his chest is flushed, too, and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. There’s a small, bleeding hole in his shoulder that Wade immediately recognizes as being the work of a bullet.

Peter sways on his feet. Wade is there to catch him.

“You were shot?” he asks, aware that he sounds shrill and panicked. Peter’s skin is cold and clammy under his hands.

“Just a little,” Peter says, because he’s a smartass (Wade loves him). He clutches at Wade, leans heavily into him. “I’ll be fine- just. The bullet. Needs to come out.”

Peter grunts when Wade swings him up into his arms, bridal-style, but otherwise doesn’t protest as he’s carried into the kitchen and placed, sitting, on the counter. He’s holding himself like he’ll shatter if he moves around too much. Maybe he feels like he will. It’s not that Wade doesn’t know other people don’t have his incredibly high pain tolerance, it’s just that it’s hard to remember what that was like. Being so fragile.

“Uh,” Wade says, throwing drawers and cabinets open and closed in a flurry of motion. Peter watches with a grimace he can’t shake. “I have a knife, a spoon, and some alcohol.”

“This is a horrible idea,” Peter tells him. “Just for the record.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Now hold still.” Wade places the tip of the blade at the edge of the wound. He pauses. “You have a healing factor, right?”

“Well, I- kind of. Whatever. Just do it.”

Wade can tell the exact moment that the pain he’s inflicting becomes worse than the pain of having a bullet lodged in your shoulder. Peter tenses up all over, grits his teeth. Little crows feet appear at the corners of his eyes when he squeezes them shut. His cheeks get redder and he starts putting off heat like a fucking furnace.

Wade is working the bullet out when Peter grabs his wrist, stilling him. He laughs. Or tries to. It comes out hoarse and pained. “Just… need a breather,” he says. Slurs, really. Like he’s on the verge of passing out.

Wade lets him have his breather. He counts to twenty in his head. He leans over to brush a kiss across Peter’s knuckles. Peter squeezes Wade’s wrist one more time and lets go.

Peter doesn’t actually pass out. Wade is pretty impressed. “I think you deserve one of the good band-aids,” he tells him, and slips away just long enough to fetch one. And dispose of the bullet. Peter doesn’t need to see how big the slug Wade just pulled out of him really was.

“Hello Kitty?” Peter asks, looking incredulous as Wade peels off the backing and places it over the wound. But his voice is doing that thing that Wade is pretty sure means fond.

“She’s adorable,” Wade assures him. “And pink is your color.”

Peter doesn’t argue. Maybe he’s too tired. Instead, he slumps forward, rests his forehead on Wade’s shoulder and practically melts when Wade runs a soothing hand through his fluffy hair. “I’ll be alright in a day or two,” Peter says. Maybe to Wade, maybe to himself.

“I know. Now tell me whose ass I need to kick for doing this to my baby boy.”

Peter doesn’t tell him. Maybe because he knows Wade is more likely to hang the guy responsible by his own dick than give him a stern talking to and send him on his merry way. Instead, he nuzzles at Wade’s throat and says, quietly, sleepily, “Thank you.”

Wade plants a kiss in his hair. “Anything for you,” he says, and means it more than he ever thought he would.


	2. bed sharing + sharing clothes

Living with Peter feels a lot like trying to balance the point of a needle on the edge of a knife. Or, not just living with Peter but knowing him. From day one they’ve had this bizarre, bi-polar relationship that feels like it could fall at any second into either hatred or… something else. Something better but all-consuming. Wade lives in constant fear of tipping the balance one way or the other. He’s been around the block a few times- enough to know that everything ends, and nothing ends well. Not for him, anyway.

Usually it’s easy to keep Peter at arms length. They don’t see a lot of each other, since they keep almost polar opposite schedules. Wade does his thing at night, Peter does his student thing during the day and if, by some happy accident, they do find themselves spending time together, all Wade has to do is remind himself what happens to the people he gets attached to.

Peter is brusque most of the time, anyway. Distant. That helps. It allows Wade to entertain the idea that all of this is one-sided, that none of it matters because Peter would never have him.

But then sometimes… Sometimes Peter pulls shit like this. Shit like falling asleep in Wade’s bed, dressed in Wade’s hoodie.

This isn’t the first time Wade has come home to find Peter asleep in his room. Usually he only does it if Wade’s been gone for a few days in a row and then he wakes up just long enough to see for himself that Wade is okay and trudges groggily back to his own room, yawning and rubbing at his eyes as he goes. The hoodie is new, though. New and… weird. It practically swallows him. The sleeves drape down over his hands. Wade is suddenly having trouble breathing.

Maybe Peter can sense Wade staring at him because he starts to stir, shifting around and then opening his eyes and Wade fully expects him to make a run for it but instead he just smiles, sleepy and rumpled and lovely. “There you are,” he says, voice rough. He doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave.

“Here I am,” Wade manages, his own voice rough but probably for different reasons. He’s practically whispering, mimicking Peter’s own middle-of-the-night volume. “You’re wearing my hoodie.”

“Mm,” Peter agrees, burrowing further into it. “Smells like you.”

Wade approaches the bed like he would a wild animal. When Peter doesn’t spook, but instead just keeps watching him, eyes half-lidded and smile content, Wade carefully takes a seat on the edge. The mattress dips under his weight. “Peter, I smell like shit.”

“Nooo,” Peter argues, with all the grace of a tired toddler. “You smell like you.” He makes grabby hands in the direction of Wade’s face. “Take the mask off,” he complains. “Wanna see you.”

Wade only hesitates for a second. It’s nothing Peter hasn’t seen before. He puts the mask aside, along with his belt and gloves.

“Better,” Peter decides, gaze flicking over Wade’s features. No one else looks at Wade like this. Like they don’t even see the scars. Or, no- like they see them but don’t dislike them.

It’s only when Peter actually reaches out to take his arm, pulling him down, that Wade lays beside him. Peter curls into him, subtly but unmistakably. His hair is all over the place, mashed down on one side and sticking up on the other, and his cheeks are pink and there are circles under his eyes and he looks ridiculous in Wade’s oversized hoodie but- But. He’s also, somehow, the most beautiful thing Wade has ever seen. He always is. Even on bad days. On days when Peter is preoccupied and reserved. On days when they’re arguing over something stupid and Wade wonders if the balance will finally tip in the favor of hatred. Even on days when Wade is trying to pretend like Peter is less than this to him.

Peter closes his eyes. He keeps his hand on Wade and that’s how Wade falls asleep, with Peter holding onto him.

He expects to wake up alone. He always wakes up alone. Instead, he wakes up with Peter in his arms, playing little spoon, their legs tangled together under the sheets. Sunlight is streaming in through the gap in the curtains, painting the room in gold.

“Peter- baby boy,” Wade stage-whispers, trying to disentangle before Peter can fully wake up and realize where he is. But Peter twines their finger together over his own chest, holding Wade’s arms wrapped around him.

“Few more minutes,” he mumbles.

Wade has always been bad at denying Peter anything, but he’s powerless to deny him this.

He settles back in, pulls Peter to his chest, and tries not to hope for more mornings like this one.


	3. "I would kill for you. Isn't that enough?"

There’s blood dripping down his arm and splattered across his chest. His sword is coated in it, shining and vivid red. There are entrails under his boot and brain matter hidden away in the creases of his gloves.

There are bodies at his feet. He can’t really remember how they got there. All he remembers is seeing Peter at their mercy, bloody and bruised with the edge of a knife poised at his throat. Everything after that is black and white and nothing solid. There was just that- them threatening Peter- and then this, bodies at his feet.

Peter is on his hands and knees, now, right where he happened to fall when Wade gutted the men holding him. His suit is torn across his chest and his legs. His mask is gone- Wade isn’t sure when he took it off but he wishes he hadn’t. He’s looking up at Wade with an expression of utter betrayal. It’s the look of someone both furious and heartbroken and it’s terrible.

Wade throws his sword away, discards it as though it’s burning him. He drops to his knees in front of Peter, reaches out to touch him- and stops when Peter flinches.

“How could you?” Peter breathes, looking at the carnage around them. There’s enough blood on the walls to paint a mural. The entire room reeks of the stuff. “After everything… How could you?”

Wade’s mouth works but he isn’t sure what to say. He’s used to Peter leaving him speechless but not like this.

He touches the side of Peter’s head, where blood has matted his hair. This time Peter lets him. “You’re hurt,” he manages, finally. Peter closes his eyes.

“I- I can’t,” he says, and sits back, putting distance between them. “I can’t do this, Wade. I told you- I told you this was your last chance. You promised…” He takes a deep breath. There’s a thin sheen of sweat over his skin and he hasn’t stopped shaking. When he opens his eyes again he look at Wade like he doesn’t know him. Like Wade is a stranger. Somehow that’s even worse than the expression he wore before. “You’re a monster. I thought I could change you, could make you better- but you won’t change. Not for me, not for anyone.”

“Change…?” The word tastes bitter on Wade’s tongue. He gestures at the bodies around them. “I’d kill for you. Isn’t that enough?”

Peter’s lips are a thin line. All the color is drained out of him, leaving him unearthly pale. He shakes his head, just once.

Wade abruptly stands. “Fuck you,” he says, spitting venom mostly on reflex. Ruining things before Peter can declare them ruined. “Fuck you and your fucking self-righteousness. I just saved your goddamned life and you wanna- you wanna fucking-“

“It’s over,” Peter says, talking right over him. “Wade, it’s over.”

“You better fucking mean it this time,” Wade snaps. “Because I’m not coming back.”

“So don’t,” Peter says, and something in his tone of voice tells Wade things are different this time. That this time Peter really means it. That Wade finally pushed him too far, screwed up too monumentally. That Peter has finally come to his senses.

Wade knew it was too good to be true. He knew they’d never last.

Doesn’t stop it from hurting.


	4. "I'm not a bad person. I can't be. They're wrong."

“Spidey? Wow, what are you doing here? I’m a huge fan. Got your poster in my room and I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had this one dream where me and you get frisky on the beach-“

“What happened here?” Peter asks, unable to disguise his dawning horror. “This is- this is a slaughter.”

Deadpool flutters a hand toward the largest grouping of corpses. Most of the bodies are unidentifiable. Peter doesn’t even want to look at them long enough to try. It seems like he’s mere seconds too late to save anyone. “I’m helping,” Deadpool explains sweetly. “You know, doing the hero thing. Cleaning house. Taking out the baddies. Don’t you know who I am?”

Peter shakes his head but what he says is, “Yeah, I know who you are. You’re Deadpool.”

Deadpool leans against the counter, perfectly nonchalant even as he’s covered in blood. Peter notes that, though he appears to be missing a sword, all of his other weapons are accounted for. His guns are holstered and his remaining katana is sheathed, but of course they’re all within easy reach. Peter keeps an eye on his hands.

“So why do you sound so fucking spooked?” Deadpool asks.

“Because I know who you are,” Peter says carefully. “I’ve heard all about you. On the news, in the papers, from the other Avengers. And because I know who you are, I know you’re a bad guy. The kind of guy I should hand over to the cops.”

That gets Deadpool’s attention. He stands up straight, suddenly tense. But he doesn’t reach for a weapon. “Me?” he asks, baffled. “I- I’m not a bad guy. I can’t be. They’re wrong. You don’t actually believe that shit they peddle, do you, Spidey?”

“I believe what I see. And right now I’m standing in a room full of people that you just murdered.”

Deadpool stumbles forward, hands held out, beseeching. “No, no,” he tries to explain. “These are bad guys. That’s why I killed them. So they can’t hurt anyone else. I’m like you- I’m a hero.”

“You’re nothing like me,” Peter snaps. He doesn’t mean to snap. Once he’s done it he wishes he could undo it. Instead he watches Deadpool deflate.

“But- I am,” he insists, now sounding less than sure. “I help people.”

“I think you genuinely believe that,” Peter tells him. “I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.”

Wade’s fingers twitch toward his gun. Or maybe they don’t- maybe it was only a trick of the light. Either way, Peter webs his hands to the wall, effectively trapping him in place. Deadpool makes a noise of surprise and betrayal and Peter is glad that he can’t see his expression. He’s not sorry, though. Based on the stories he’s heard and the scene before him, Deadpool deserves this and worse.

“If you want to be a hero,” Peter says. “You’ve gotta act like one.”

“My way works,” Deadpool says, now sounding cold. “My way fucking works.”

“But your way isn’t right.”

Peter leaves him there, pulling ineffectually at his bonds. The cops, he knows, will find Deadpool in the midst of the bodies with blood all over him and the murder weapons strapped to his back and belted around his waist and no one will be able to deny that he’s guilty. Maybe he’ll go away for a long time. Maybe he’ll learn his lesson. But Peter very much doubts it.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [dontcareajot](http://dontcareajot.tumblr.com)  
> Feel free to drop by and give me a drabble prompt of your own!


End file.
